


Where Phil Grew Up And Why It's Hilarious

by xAglow



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Comedy, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Fluff, Fun, Hangover, Languages and Linguistics, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xAglow/pseuds/xAglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shit Clint, I dies at you, you know?” The words were too slurred to just be from drink. They were spoken in the oddest, most unintelligible English (?) Clint had ever heard. “CRACKED!” Coulson continued in a bellow followed by a sharp laugh. </p><p>Clint had gotten a text from Coulson asking for a lift back to base from the civi bar just outside the P.E.G.A.S.U.S. facility. The text message had been a bit off. While it had been as succinct as most communications between the two went, the added <b>- and Barton, this is super secret! -</b> had been a little suspicious. He’d double-checked that the text had originated from Coulson’s phone and was also armed to the 10’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I took a linguistics class this Spring semester. I had it's final exam 2 days ago that I didn't even opened my book to study for because I was writing this. 
> 
> If anyone can guess where you think Phil is from, please keep it to yourself for a little bit more. We don't want to give the game away too soon. It'll become clear by the next chapter anyway.

“Some day on clothes by…” 

Clint jerked at the murmured words from the Agent beside him. Okay, so he didn’t necessarily jerk… Training was too far ingrained to show a tell of surprise like that, but he did, ever so slightly, turn to look towards the speaker. Perhaps it was still a telling feat in and of itself considering the now chaotic sky that held everyone else’s focus and should have held his. 

Clint was a little shaken at what Agent Coulson had said. The words made no contextual sense as much as Clint racked his brain to make them fit. Clint used all his training (‘Ha!’ went the ever derisive voice of Nat in his head) and came up with a feeling that maybe the murmured words were said sarcastically. This did little to place any context… It must have been a colloquial term of some sorts, but this only unsettled Clint further.

Agent Phil Coulson was the consummate professional. Bureau regulation to a T. Case in point, unlike Clint (who let his upbringing and near illiterate hick accent hang around long vowels and hard /a/’s), Coulson had a perfectly cultured non-accent the specialists train recruits in.

Things were definitely going pear shaped if Coulson had let loose with something so revealing. Sure enough, it wasn’t too soon after that the sudden storm that had formed out in the middle of the New Mexico desert cleared, a tornado-like thing forming and lifting just as quickly, leaving a giant metal - Robot? - thing in its place. 

 

\------------

 

“What did you mean when you said “some day clothes by,” Boss-man?” Clint asked when the mess with aliens (ALIENS?!) was finished. 

Coulson froze and turned to Clint. 

They’d been walking down the hall that would take them to Coulson’s office in one of the main wings of the P.E.G.A.S.U.S. facility. They’d come straight from New Mexico to bring Erik Selrik here and had just finished dropping the scientist off in his new lab some 50 floors bellow them. They had taken the elevators up to the higher-level Agent’s office rooms were.

The few people coming and going – a few science folks, but mostly other agents - walked around them, giving over the center of the hallway to Coulson and his authority. Clint always got a little bit of a thrill at such displays. Coulson was his handler after all and Clint could take pride when the other man did well and was so well respected. It may also have been disproportionality arousing. 

After giving Clint a very long stare Coulson turned and started walking for his office again.

“Just something I’ve heard around.” Coulson hedged. It was as blatant a hedging as Clint had ever heard from the other man. Clint imaged this was Coulson’s version of a blush. He even fancied there was a little more colour in the other man's generally impassive face. 

Coulson had his office key card out and swiped it when they reached his door. Clint followed him in.

“Don’t you have reports to fill out?” Coulson wasn’t even trying to be subtle about changing the subject. “Backdated ones?”

Clint’s interest was officially peaked. Mind you, it didn’t take much these days to interest Clint if Coulson was involved. Cause, yeah, he was a flaming cliché and fell for his handler (‘you take orders like such a good boy’ Nat’s voice purred in his head and he imagined a different sort of order Coulson could give him to follow). 

Despite his inner musing, he said without skipping a beat, “Did the last field report while on the plane, you’ll see it there in your email inbox.” Clint said this while stepping more fully into the office and leaning over Coulson’s desk to poke at the computer screen that was still waiting for Coulson to log in. 

Leaving Coulson to it, Clint moved to the couch that was to the side of the office and fell back on it, legs kicking up and over the arm rest since the love seat wasn’t long enough to lie down on. The room was silent, but for the typing sounds of Coulson’s keyboard as he worked. 

So much had happened over the last week that Clint hadn’t had time to find out what the words that Coulson had said that day meant. Clint took his phone out and pulled an Internet browser up to search the phrase. He tried multiple versions of “some day,” “someday,” “some-day,” but nothing was hitting. Clint new, he just knew that this little idiomatic slip from Coulson would be a major clue in the life of Philip J Coulson, pre-Agent. Clint would leave no stone unturned in his pursuit (‘staking’) of Phil. 

There was a noise from Coulson’s direction that, had it come from anyone else Clint would have described as strangled distress, but this was Coulson, so he must have been mistaken. 

“What are you still doing here, Agent Barton?” 

“Looking up what you said on Google.” 

That weird sound came again, worse and somehow with an air of resignation. 

“And…?”

“Nothings coming up… What is the phrase exactly?”

“It’s as you said, Barton.” 

Clint hummed none committedly. He wished Nat were around so he could ask her. She was good with these kinds of language things. She had fancy names for them too. He only knew enough about the language varieties of the Middle East cause he had to. Natasha knew the kind of shit about dead languages and stuff cause she liked to. Some odd English phrase would be nothing for her to find the origin of. 

Clint got up from the couch, head bent and going through the search results on his phone. This wasn’t working he needed help. He’d misappropriated S.H.I.E.L.D. equipment and employees before so he knew who to go to for help in finding out what that phrase meant until he could reach Natasha. He must have looked like he had a mission because Coulson suddenly stood from his chair.

“Report to Hill for a briefing on your next assignment.” Coulson didn’t yell the words, they were said calmingly and in the same crisp manner he gave all his orders in. However, there was a quality to Coulson’s body language and this entire situation with the mystery phrase that made Clint pause and blink as if Coulson had yelled at him. Coulson had been anything, but cool and collected about this whole thing.

“Sir.” Clint allowed a smirk to shine through as he nodded his affirmation to the other man. Clint must have been letting his imagination get away with him because he thought he saw Coulson’s ear pinken as he left the office.

Nefiew Translations  
 _Some day on clothes by_ – A day nice enough to dry ones clothing on. (Coulson was being cheeky when he said this of a stormy day :P)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING**
> 
> It wasn't worth putting in the tags cause if you blink you'll miss it, but there is a very briefly/eluded to comment about Clint's past abuse that is sort of cannon with Hawkeye's origin story.

“Shit Clint, I dies at you, you know?” The words were too slurred to just be from drink. They were spoken in the oddest, most unintelligible English (?) Clint had ever heard. “CRACKED!” Coulson continued in a bellow followed by a sharp laugh.

Clint had gotten a text from Coulson asking for a lift back to base from the civi bar just outside the P.E.G.A.S.U.S. facility. The text message had been a bit off. While it had been as succinct as most communications between the two went, the added **\- and Barton, this is super secret! -** had been a little suspicious. He’d double-checked that the text had originated from Coulson’s phone and was also armed to the 10’s.

The bar where he’d found Coulson smelt strongly of stale beer and his boots crunch on peanut shells as he shifts. There doesn’t seem to have been an open window in the dive since it opened, the air thick with the smell of old tobacco smoke and the musk of the many patrons. 

Clint scowled.

“Don’t be crooked.” Coulson laments. 

Clint scowled harder. 

Clint has seen an alien prince fly through the sky and fucking Rainbow-Einstein-Bridge-whatever’s bring hollow, fire-breathing machines of death, so he hadn’t yet dismissed the possibility that this wasn’t the real Coulson. 

“I think you’re cut off.” Clint mumbled as he tried to grab at the other Agent’s shoulders and steer him off the bar stool and out of the place. 

“Now the once, Clint, sit’n by.” Coulson gestures at the wooden stool beside him. Again, the peculiar English is strung together in a way Clint thinks sounds Irish, but the words aren’t put together in any order that the Irish he knows would. Perhaps it’s just that Coulson is so drunk and he can’t string together a proper sentence, but again, Clint’s experience with drunken Irish lead him to think this isn’t the answer. 

“Come on Boss man.” Clint bodily picked Coulson up, ignoring the heat of the other man as he leaned heavily in his drunken stupor. The right side of Clint’s front presses close to Coulson’s back and it takes every fiber in Clint’s being not to bring the man even closer. That is until Coulson nearly unbalances them as he tries to lean back into Clint without warning. Clint isn’t proud, but he scrambles a little to adjust to the weight (‘smooth’)

“Mucking off? Squid…” Coulson trails off sounding displeased. Clint, still struggling, pauses at being called a Squid.

“I’m a Squid?”

“Yes by! No… that’s not fair. Making me feel a squid. Am I coming or going!? I dinnae ken y’more.” Heaving out of Clint’s hold, Coulson tried to take a step, “That is some squish,” he mumbles before almost face planting onto the sticky, crunchy mess of a bar floor. 

Clint is reeling, unable to fit this into his worldview. He is sure most of his brain is occupied with unfettered laughter, and this is clogging any real thought proses. If he were Nat, he’d have his phone out recording this for future leverage, something tells him not to, however. 

Abruptly his internal laughing is chocked off as Coulson swings around to face him and steadies himself by placing both hands on either side of Clint’s head. Perhaps he was originally aiming for Clint’s shoulders but aims high as he overcompensates for twirling around so fast. 

At first it feels like having someone haphazardly boxed his ears, and Clint blinks in disorientation. Coulson moves his grip, however, and unexpectedly Clint suddenly has long and dexterous fingers gliding into his hair. Nails lightly scratching along his temples where the hair is shaved short. One hand moving up to the top of his head where he’s let the hair get a little longer (‘against regulation’ Nat’s voice titters).

“Mops and brooms!” Coulson laughs as he affectionately ruffles the top of Clint’s head.

“Get fumblin’Dublin here outta my bar, he’s cut off.” Say the bartender from somewhere to Clint’s side. 

“Not Irish.” Coulson says crossly, and there’s a look in his eye. In anyone else Clint would have said that it was a fire, a burn and need to fight, but this was Coulson… Then again, Coulson was not behaving very Coulson-like tonight.

“Okay!” Clint says loudly to grab his boss’s attention. “Doubled time Boss.” Clint tries for an air of authority as he frog marches Coulson from the pub. 

It’s moderately warm outside, the ground heating things from the earlier hours under the unrepentant desert sun.

“What the hell brought this on Boss?” Clint doesn’t expect an answer, but he has to say something as they walk. He has to try and keep his mind from thinking about the feeling of Coulson once again pressed to his side. He helps Coulson walk to where he parked the S.H.I.E.L.D. jeep in the bars side parking lot.

“Why are you looking into me?” It’s the soberest Coulson has sounded since Clint has found him. They’ve stopped, and the thought ‘Coulson’s face is really close’ is all Clint’s brain is coming up with. 

Coulson’s right arm, flung over Clint’s shoulder for balance, slides across the archer’s back. It stops at Clint’s left bicep and grips there a moment as he lists a little to the side. Clint can see him try to shake the booze haze and gain control of his body. Once steadied, Coulson’s hand slips down, almost over Clint’s heart and pushes forward. Clint steps back at the press. 

Clint’s more than a little caught up in Cou- Phil’s gaze (‘calling him Phil now?’). It takes Clint a moment to realize he’s been pushed into the parking lot at the side of the building. His back hits metal, and his peripheral vision informs him that it’s a light blue pick-up he’s been crowed up against. 

“Why, Agent Barton, are you looking for information about me personally?” Phil’s normal State Bureau reg accent is coming back, and Clint feels like he’s lost something important. Phil shakes his head like a waterlogged dog. Like most of the night’s displays, this action is just odd coming from the person Clint thought he knew. “Not me personally, but as in me-my personally-personal,” Phil dips his head and huffs into Clint’s neck and shoulder. He looks up and tries again, “Why are you looking for information on my personal life?” He chuffs a satisfied puff of air at Clint’s face that smells of stale liquor. 

Why was Phil so focused on this question? On the answer? Why did Phil sound so hopeful asking it? Was this what had started Phil on the heavy public drinking? And why did that thought do odd things to Clint’s stomach, like he was about to head into a fight, all jitters, and excitement?

“What you said back in New Mexico.” Clint stated in confusion, and Phil groaned. Being so closely pressed the sound reverberated into Clint’s chest in a very pleasant way. 

“Why’re y'going to the trouble?” Phil crowded him. His face was getting closer to Clint’s the longer they stayed pressed together. 

“Phil…” And why the fuck had he just called his boss by his first name OUTLOUD? And why the fuck had he done it in some God-awful breathy tone?

“You want this as bad as I do… you’re hard Clint,” Phil sounded surprised, the words coming out slow and reverential, and Clint’s brain was going if he thought Phil would feel anything like reverential towards a bum like him.

“Wait, what?!” Clint squeaked a little when it registered what the fuck Phil had said.

“What’re deef as a cod?” Phil laughed, lips just to the side of Clint’s mouth. They were that close now. “Wantin’ this so bad, so long.”

Clint was stunned and wishing this wasn’t happening when the guy he’d liked for the last few years was drunker than a skunk.

“Phil,” Clint pleaded, trying to push the senior Agent back. Clint just needed enough space from that perfectly placed knee between his legs to be able to start thinking again. That knee, however, was making it increasingly hard to stop the proceedings. 

“Yur stund as me arse, Clint,” Phil said into the silence, their heaving breaths mingling. “Not ever day the Morris kills a cow, Clint. Go with it!” He said it with conviction and kissed Clint again, pressing him further against the pickup. 

Groaning, Clint felt his bones melt. Why was that accent doing such a number on him? He couldn’t do this to Phil, not while he was drunk. He pushed harder and Phil overbalanced. Before he could fall on his ass, Clint grabbed his elbows.

“Just… not here, not while you’re...” Clint tried to get enough blood to his brain to articulate himself. “I can’t take advantage, not like…” He trailed off again, but this time Coulson did stop because yeah, Clint had had a fucked up childhood, Phil knew that. Clint must have had his serious face on for Phil to catch on despite his drunkenness. 

“You’re an old dog for a hard road, Clint.” Phil’s expression was serious as he says this. The features were not the same from what his mission seriousness was. From what Clint could make out the expression was softer, sadder, (‘pity’ Nat’s voice scoffed in his head. For once they were both in agreement). The expression made Clint more than a little uncomfortable in the gnawing whole that was his chest cavity.

“Jumpin dyin” Phil blurted into the silence. Clint had no idea what it meant, but it was said in a tone resigned enough that he knew they’d finally put a hold on the proceedings. That was until Phil grabbed Clint’s hard dick through his pants.

A muttered, “Fuck,” was all Clint could manage before he ground himself up into that warm hand. He clutched further up Phil’s arms to stay upright. He still ended up slumping down the pick up a little which forced him to tilt his head back to see Phil’s face. The express on Phil’s face was too much in combination with the hand. Clint looking down to get away from the intensity only end up watching Phil’s hand on him. This was going to end embarrassingly for Clint if he kept his eyes open, so he shut them fast. Bad idea. It was almost as bad (good?). 

“You want this.”

“Yes” Clint hissed the word.

“But not when m’bout half cut?” Clint must have shown complete cluelessness because Phil tried again, “Drunk, when I’m not drunk.” The accent had dropped slightly as Phil tried to clarify himself.

“Yes!” Fuck, but he sounded needy. Clint half expected to have some harlequin-quality heaving bosom going on. He felt flushed.

“Drive us back to base, Ducky.” Phil finally stepped back, and Clint DIDN’T thrust his hips up to follow the retreat of Phil’s hand, he didn’t. 

They stumbled, both drunk on something, to the black Jeep and were back to base in record time. Clint may have gunned it because once in the cab Phil’s hand kept playing with his knee and inner thigh. The faster they were off the road the safer for them both. 

Despite being the drunk one, Phil walked Clint to his quarters.

“Agent,” He said in that deep accent Clint still couldn’t place. “No more snooping.” And with nothing more he walked away, down the hall, around the corner and out of sight. Clint was a little dazed, and so it took him a moment to realize that Phil had gone the wrong direction to his quarters.

Nefiew Translations  
_I dies at you_ – Calling someone funny  
_Cracked_ – Something that is really funny  
_crooked_ – Ill tempered  
_Now the once_ – in a moment  
_sit’n by_ – stay  
_Mucking_ – to go  
_Squid_ – a wishy washy person  
_Yes by_ – sure  
_I dinnae ken y’more_ – “I don’t know any more.”  
_That is some squish_ – not straight  
_Mops and brooms_ – untidy hair  
_Yur stund as me arse_ – not the brightest crayon in the box  
_Not ever day the Morris kills a cow_ – opportunity only comes round so often  
_You’re an old dog for a hard road_ – overcoming hard times  
_Jumpin dyin_ – an expletive when something isn’t going you way  
_m’bout half cut_ – drunk  
_Ducky_ – an endearment


	3. Chapter 3

Phil was sure that no one knew. He doubted even Fury knew. Coulson was sure that in his file somewhere it said where he was from, that skills listed said he’d had voice quality training, but he was sure no one (living) _‘knew’_.

It was a thing of beauty, after so many years of training, to lose the accent. There was a small amount of shame if he let his training slip (felt ever so much more poignantly the morning after he’d had a few too many brewskies- beers and nursing a handover).

If he was being completely honest with himself, and he usually was, a slip hadn’t happened since 2006 in Vancouver, BC. He’d had some leave before that second mess with Stark. It had been decided for him that he was going to take his vacation and so he’d gone to a concert up there. He’d followed the carrier of the band since the early 90’s and he was happy to see them still at it again so many years later. He’d practically wallowed in that particular side of himself for the concert and the following day and night. He had then called it quits on the vacation when he’d woken up hung over (not such a young man anymore) and gone back to S.H.I.E.L.D. and Fury (who looked decided surprised that Coulson had been gone as long as he had). 

He remembered feeling annoyance at the commercial airport crush that worsened on the cramped plane ride up north. Once he had landed and dropped off his luggage bag at the hotel, he’d gone to the concert. He remembered thoroughly enjoyed the music. The airplane cocktails and the few beers later that night at the concert had helped the hazy, good feelings. The concert ran very late, so when he got to his hotel he slept almost immediately after his perimeter security check. He’d been set to get up early to catch a plane back to headquarters; only the Vancouver weather had other plans. 

By the time he’d woken the next day the sky had opened up to giant hunks of hail, and the wind that had picked up from the Pacific Ocean was fierce. The 5am morning news was filled with a sleuth of reported downed trees, and power outages throughout the tri-cities. Taking this in stride Phil had stayed in his hotel room, taking an in-room breakfast when he found out his plane had been delayed 7 hours. 

He checked out at 11am, feeling crisp in an ironed out grey suit, the weight of his small travel bag in one hand and he had the front desk call him a cab. As he was about to step out onto the street, he thought better of waiting at the airport for 7 hours. Instead he asked the concierge if there were any good pubs in the area were he could wait out the storm and catch up on emails (he blamed the request for a pub on a residual high from the concert the other night). The concierge had known about the concert last night, they’d talked about it when he’d checked in the day before, and that is how Phil found himself at O’Reilly’s pub for the day.

Good music and a good feeling found him upon entering the pub from the mauzy break in the storm outside. A group of men, more than a decade older than Coulson, 2 guitars, 1 viola player, and a banjo held court at a stage to one side on the pub. Dark brown brink was their backdrop. They were singing to Charlie Mops, and Coulson knew that if any of his Agents could have seen him in that moment they would have been floored at the God honest smirk gracing the normally dour mans face. 

Of the 4 men, 3 sang into microphones, and they sounded amazing, almost as good as the concert the night before, perhaps even better because of the intimacy in the pub. Only a few people were inside for an early lunch. The waitress set him up in a booth at the back of the pub facing the entrance. He ordered a dark larger with his lunch and made it clear that he was going be there for a while working, and the waitress seemed sympathetic about his delayed flight. 

The men alternated from singing together, to singing individually. The banjo player in particular was extremely expressive, exaggerating the lyrics of the song even more for this little bit of theatre. His eyes and eyebrows worked with such aplomb, it looked light a natural reflex, not taught or artificial, but genuine as if he’d be just as expressive while talking about the weather. His wink towards the female patrons was so familiar Coulson’s smile grew larger. He’d seen similar such winks from the men he knew growing up as they flirted with the women they’d come across. It usually accompanied a wife’s stern admonishments and a cuff up the head. 

“Where y’longs to?” the waitress said as she placed his food down in front of his almost finished beer. Coulson realized he hadn’t even gotten out his laptop to start working, he’d been so engrossed by the music. There was a beat as Coulson thought about his answer. His hesitance made the girl ask again, “Sorry, where’re y’from?”

Smiling he answered truthfully, making her smile all the more as the beer let him relax enough to reply with some of his old accent to sneak through. 

Left to eat and enjoy the bands set, it was some time before Coulson got to any work emails. It was coming on duckish, the storm outside speeding the coming darkness when the power in the place went out. The band (having been playing acoustically for some time) stopped playing to join the rest of the pub in looking at the now dark light bubbles in the ceiling. 

While there wasn’t a dinner’s rush worth of people in the pub, but there was a few about. Coulson had noticed, as they’d come in, that they had all acted like regulars. Coulson’s ears would pick up the slang and cadences of his childhood from the patrons and greeting waitresses and owner. Those that had settled enough from the abrupt darkness started helping out the waitresses as they set out candles, and the band started playing again. Some of the women giggled as the air in the place became more intimate. 

The storm had killed the hydro lines outside, and most, if not the entire city was down. They got the notice when the owner came out, having called the RCMP non-emergency line on her cellphone. There was a call for another round while the beer was still cold, and the owner said they were cooking what they could, how they could and preparing whatever else if anyone was hungry.

Coulson, putting his belongs to the side of the booth, stepped out and offered his assistance along with a few of the female patrons. His Agents would have been agog as he pulled his suit jacket off and rolled up his sleeves. Thus started an odd sort of scoff, intimate and oddly harmonizing to Coulson’s soul. He hadn’t thought to find this again, least of all on a forced vacation and on the wrong side of Canada. That was how things were though, get a few drifters away from home, and together they bundled in like the weather wasn’t fit. Seeing as it was February, and how in actuality the weather wasn’t fit the metaphor was apt. 

Perhaps it wasn’t as family friendly as he was used to seeing as there weren’t any kids about. Some fine looking ladies were game and seeing as Coulson was helping the bar staff he was pulled in close as those nearest to the bar sang with the band. He drank it up almost as much as everyone drank up the beers. 

The bar’s staff and owner had been fast to cook what they could in the fryers while they could, and then they threw together that which didn’t need heating for those in the bar to enjoy. More candles were lit, and since the word was given that the power would be out most the night, everyone settled to enjoy the company. Giant dipps soon emptied, their ice used to pack in the no longer working fridges to try and preserve as much of the meat as the owner could. 

Seeing this, and only slightly because he was drunk, Coulson handed over his credit card to the owner and bought the lot, and most of the nights beer for everyone quietly. In case nothing kept at least this little haven of home wouldn’t be too far out come morning. 

The bar didn’t exactly close that night. Everyone thought they’d just wait out the worst of the weather before calling cabs, but when the storm stayed so did they. When the beers were no longer cold, they moved to harder liquors, and no one brought up leaving again.

“Long may you big jib draw.” The owner, Brenda, said to Phil the next day as he left. Out of the pub and back to the real world was jarring and not just because he was more hung over than he ever remembered being. It was cool outside, but the sun was out. It was refreshing out, very unlike the brewer of a day he’d had when he first arrived. 

In the cab to the airport, he watched Saturday twackers amble the street shops until the cab turned onto a throughway road taking him to the Vancouver International Airport. He’d missed his flight the night before. He hadn’t been sure if it had even left at all. He pulled his PDA out and checked. It hadn’t. He had a coupon from the airport for a new flight when he wanted it. 

Those 2 nights were not what Coulson was thinking about when he woke, cotton-mouthed and not in his own bunk. Groaning, muscles sore and stiff (really not a young man anymore) he hefted himself up off his stomach by his elbows and bracing himself at the knees. The springs of the couch dug into him like evil little pressure points. His head dipped downed a little as the world spun at even that small amount of movement.

He was on the most uncomfortable couch that smelt funky enough to heighten the rolling feeling of his stomach. Opening his eyes, he blinked a few times until he was able to see that the couch he had passed out on was the one in the communal lunchroom. He groaned again as the slicing pain of embarrassment hit him.

“No one’s seen you here,” there was a pause before the masculine voice continued, “yet.”

“Barton,” Coulson said tersely before a flood of memories assaulted him. “Barton…” He groaned and felt such shame at showing Barton his feelings and for drinking as much as he had. The negative tailspin his thoughts were going down hit an abrupt stall as he remembered feeling Bart- Clint’s hard length and reciprocating tongue. 

“Come on Boss.” Barton’s voice sounded far too amused. There went any professional footing Coulson may have had with the man. The world spun as he was helped up to a standing position. 

He remembered clearly his reasons for drinking. They’d been weak reasons, but then Clint always made him weak. The other man had been so damn determined to figure out whatever the hell he could about Coulson’s personal life and the effort was making Phil confused and stupidly hopeful. It had been the hope that had driven the nights over indulgence. Perhaps not so stupid in his hope if what he remembered of last night was true.

“You’re from Newfoundland,” Clint said as they walked towards the facilities barracks. Coulson’s arm around the shorter mans shoulders. 

“What time is it?” Coulson was disgusted with his lack of grace in trying to change the subject.

“o’500,” there was a pause before, “You’re fucking Canadian, Phil!” Barton was fucking laughing at him. He excused the mental swearing because his head still hurt like a fucker and because… Barton. Was. Laughing. At. Him. They were never going to be able to have a professional relationship anywhere close to… professional. Fuck he couldn’t think.

Coulson ignored the other mans chuckles till they made it to the door to his quarters. They’d been lucky and had only passed a few other Agents along the way. He’d gotten the odd look from them, but he couldn’t think about that, about them, when everything hurt. Thinking hurt. Before he could pull out from Clint’s arm that had been around his waist was hard Clint stopped him.

“How aboot dinner tonight?” Barton said the word ‘about’ in that damn American exaggeration of a Canadian accent. Barton had been waiting till Coulson met his eyes before making his eyebrows wiggle in a Groucho Marx impression. Coulson could just image the damn lout thinking he was being charming and dammit if Coulson wasn’t weak enough to think he was. Then the words sunk in. Phil was HUNGOVER after all… he was entitled to be a little slow this morning.

“There could be mutual taking advantage this time.” Clint wheedled. 

“Clint-,”

“Nope. Sorry Boss, but anything you could do to be would be consider consensual and is so far from taking advantage that it’s laughable.” Clint started. Phil opened his mouth to say something more to remind Clint they couldn’t, but the other man just kept talked over him, “And I checked last night with Natasha and she said there was NO reason we couldn’t. She even faxed me a form – I know how you like those – to fill out for HR. I thought we could do it as foreplay later tonight.”

Phil’s head hurt, and he wasn’t sure why he was trying so hard to stop Clint from wanting to go on a date with him... and whatever more a date with Clint came along with. He’d already admitted to himself that Clint made him weak. He was weak with wanted what Clint was offering.

“Be here at 1800, Agent and bring Chin-” He was cut off and caught off guard by the lips that smashed his. Clint pulled back just as quickly with the biggest smile Coulson had ever seen on the man before.

“Chinese. Got it Boss. See you for dinner” Clint practically skipped down the hall.

Coulson couldn’t have said if the hallway had been clear of agents before or even during that little kiss, but he knew the security cams would have caught it. He flipped the bird to where he knew one was angled at his room’s door and moved into his quarters to change out of his sleep-mussed clothing. He needed to get started on his day. He had things that needed doing, reports to file including one for interoffice romances. He didn’t want HR breathing down his neck for it when the security team inevitably gossiped about what they’d seen of him and Clint. And he’d be damned if he let Clint turn the filing into foreplay…

Nefiew Translation   
_mauzy_ – overcast, usually with spitting rain  
 _Charlie Mops_ – the “Beer Beer Beer!” song  
 _Where y’longs to_ – Where are you from  
 _hydro lines_ – Power Lines  
 _RCMP_ – Royal Canadian Mounted Police  
 _dipps_ – buckets of ice for hold beer  
 _Long may you big jib draw_ – Good luck on your journey  
 _brewer_ – that overcast grey you get before a storm  
 _twackers_ – window shoppers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, 10 Kool-Aid points to whoever guessed that the band and concert Coulson was in Vancouver for was Great Big Sea. They’re bus was actually in a big accident the very day before they went on stage :P  
> The pub is an actual pub but in Newfoundland, not Vancouver. Most of the pubs in Vancouver wouldn’t have the feel Coulson needed to take his suit jacket off for. At least not Newfoundland!Coulson.


End file.
